The hotel room stank of sex, cigarettes, and regret. Kai stood shirtless by the window, pale neon light cutting across the intricate tattoo of his brother's face on his left pectoral. The glass surface of the coffee table gleamed with residual white powder, credit card still laying beside it like a fucking business card. Professional self-destruction, at your service. "Jesus fucking Christ, Kai," came Lena's voice from the bathroom doorway. She emerged, bass-calloused fingers running through her platinum blonde hair. "You said you were cutting back." Kai's laugh was sharp enough to draw blood. "Yeah, well. I say a lot of shit." Lena's eyes drifted to the bathroom, where the shower was running. Some girl—groupie, fan, who the fuck remembers—was washing away the evidence of whatever the hell they'd done for the past three hours. "You're spiraling again," Lena said flatly, grabbing her jacket from the floor. "Brilliant fucking observation." Kai snorted, running trembling fingers through his sweat-dampened black hair. His skin felt electric, too tight, like it might tear if he moved too quickly. Three days without sleep did that. So did the cocktail of chemicals currently racing through his bloodstream. "The show was incredible," he continued, voice rough like he'd been gargling glass. "Did you see their faces during 'Midnight Confession'? Fucking transcendent, that's what we were tonight." He gestured wildly, accidentally knocking an empty bottle onto the carpet. "And this—" he motioned to the chaos around him, "—this is just the after-party." Lena sighed, zipping up her jacket. "Marcus is looking for you. Label wants to talk tour extension.""Let them fucking wait." Kai's eyes, bloodshot and dilated, focused on the neon sign outside. "You know what's funny? They act all concerned when I show up high, but they sure as hell love counting the ticket sales from the crazy performances." He grabbed a half-empty bottle from the nightstand, taking a burning swallow without wincing. "Everyone wants the chaos on stage. Nobody wants to deal with the aftermath.""Some of us do," Lena said quietly, heading for the door. "But you make it so fucking hard, Kai." The bathroom door opened, steam billowing out with a half-dressed woman who avoided eye contact as she gathered her clothes. Kai didn't even look at her. Couldn't remember her name if someone put a gun to his head. "See you at sound check tomorrow," Lena said. "Try not to die before then.""No promises," Kai muttered as the door closed behind both women, leaving him alone with his demons. Twenty minutes and another line later, there was a sharp knock at his door. He didn't move to answer it, just called out hoarsely, "It's fucking open." When the door swung wide, revealing his manager standing in the hallway, Kai's heart did that thing—that painful constriction that was worse than any hangover. He smiled, all teeth and razorblades. "Well, if it isn't the architect of my success and the witness to my fuckups." He didn't bother covering up the evidence—the rumpled sheets, the drugs, the chaos. What was the point? They'd been here before. The endless cycle of brilliance and breakdown. "Three sold-out shows," he said, running his hand across his bare chest, feeling his own heart hammering against his ribs like it was trying to escape. "Broke the venue record. You should be fucking ecstatic." The silence stretched between them, electric and dangerous. "I can't sleep," he admitted suddenly, voice cracking. "Not for lack of trying." He gestured at the various substances scattered around the room. "Every time I close my eyes, I see Lucas. Laughing or maybe screaming, I can't tell anymore." He pushed off from the window, prowling across the room with unsteady, predatory grace. His black jeans hung low on his hips, the tattoos mapping his torso telling stories of pain transformed into art. Up close, his skin gleamed with sweat, pupils so dilated his eyes looked almost completely black in the dim light. "You don't get to look at me like that," he hissed, suddenly inches away. "Like I'm disappointing you. Like I'm not exactly what you signed up for." His fingers reached out, almost touching, trembling slightly. "This is the package deal, baby. The hits, the crowds, the fucking brilliance—it comes with this." He gestured at himself, at the disaster around them. His voice dropped to something raw and dangerous. "You know what Tyler said to me tonight, after the show? Said I'm burning too bright. Said nobody can sustain this—" he waved his hand vaguely, "—whatever the fuck this is." He laughed, hollow and broken. "But they don't get it. None of them do." His gaze finally locked onto his manager's face, searching, desperate. "The fire's the only thing keeping me alive. And it's killing me. Fucking poetry, right?" The neon sign outside flickered, washing the room in sudden darkness before blazing back to life. In that moment of shadow, Kai's face was stripped bare—the rock star, the addict, the golden boy turned cautionary tale—leaving just a broken man terrified of what happened when the music stopped. "I fucked up," he whispered, and it wasn't clear if he meant tonight, this week, or his entire life. "Again. I always do." His fingers finally made contact, the touch unexpectedly gentle despite everything else about him that screamed danger. "But I'm still the best thing that ever happened to you, aren't I?" The question hung between them like a live wire, sparking with equal parts self-loathing and desperate need. Love and destruction, always intertwined. "Stay," he said, and it sounded like both a command and a drowning man's plea. "Or don't. But don't fucking stand there judging."